Today's sharing circle is a different form of cruel and unusual punishment. Instead of being picked off one by one and painfully interrogated by Owen, we get to pair up with partners and do the exact same thing to each other. There's a worksheet involved, but I already know that I'm not going to do it. I don't want to participate in this exercise at all— if the counselors really think that I'm going to sit down and willingly spill my guts to some random stranger, they're crazier than Michael Myers.

Owen counts us off into pairs. By some act of mercy, my partner ends up being James, the camper I met last Sunday night. We haven't spoken to each other since the campfire, but its better than being paired off with somebody who I've never seen before. James waves me over to where he's sitting. Even after two hellish weeks of camp, he still looks more or less the same— bold eyebrows, healthy skin, lips that haven't yet cracked from the cold. The only noticeable change about him is the tiny silver stud glittering in his ear. I don't remember him having an ear piercing— I don't think he was wearing it at the campfire.

"Thank God it's you," James tells me. His eyes, the color of solid bronze, are wide with relief. "Can you imagine having to fill out this worksheet with someone like Emily? I think I'd rather go take a dunk in the lake."

I glance over to where Emily is lounging, her Timberland boots propped up on an adjacent chair. Every now and then, she blows a bubble the size of her face and then pops it with her tongue, making her partner, Levi, scowl in disgust.

"She seems eager to share," I remark.

James cracks a grin at my joke. For some reason, knowing that I've made James smile makes me feel vaguely accomplished, like I just beat my high score at pin-ball at the arcade. Weird. Maybe I should start calling him Pretty Boy again, just to piss him off.

Owen walks around the room and hands out the worksheets. I glance down at my paper, a dissatisfied taste rising up in the back of my throat as I skim over the questions. They're exactly the kind of touchy-feely, manipulative shit you'd expect from a typical Sharing Circle.

James groans at his paper. "Please just kill me now."

"If I murdered you, who would be my partner?"

"Fair point. Now, let's get to work on these questions— I want to get them over with as quickly as possible."

"What if you didn't?"

"Huh?"

"What if you didn't have to work on the questions?"

James gives me a quizzical look. "You know that Owen will give us both a mark if we don't fill out our papers by the end of Circle, right? I'd much rather spend thirty minutes finishing this sheet than an entire week doing Kitchen Duty."

"Duh, me too. I'm not saying that we shouldn't do the questions, I'm just saying that we shouldn't do them honestly."

"I think the counselors will notice if we're lying about ourselves on the questionnaire...."

"We'll just make our lies more realistic, then. What are they going to do— claim that they know us better than we know ourselves?"

"I don't know about this. Isn't psychoanalyzing us basically their entire job?"

"Never-mind. Just forget about it." I shake my head at him, frustrated by his wariness. "I should've known that you wouldn't go along with it. I was just trying to make this activity tolerable, but if you really want to answer the questions honestly then be my guess. I guess I'm just a little fed up with constantly having to vomit my secrets up so the counselors can get off on our spiritual healing."

James' jaw tightens. "I get it, Ronan. I really do. Sharing personal stuff around strangers isn't easy. Frankly, it's exhausting. But I still think it will all be worth it in the long run. I know that I already told you this at the campfire, I really do want to—"

"Change for the better," I finish. "Yeah, I know. I'd probably want the same thing too, if I wasn't already confident that this is about as good as I'm ever going to get."

"Don't say that. Everyone is capable of self-improvement— even you."

"Now you just sound like the counselors," I mutter.

"The counselors aren't always trying to make our lives miserable, you know. Sometimes they really are being helpful."

I glare at him. "Sure. And maybe Godzilla was just misunderstood." The air is starting to feel stifling, and I have to yank my sweatshirt off to keep from over-heating. "I just don't get it. How is filling out some cheesy questionnaire going to fix us? Heal us? This is a waste of our time. The counselors aren't trying to help us— they're just trying to do their job without revealing how totally clueless they are. How are we supposed to change for the better if they don't even give us the choice?"

"Of course we have a choice," James protests. "We're at summer camp, not prison."

"Really? 'Cause this is starting to feel a lot like a jail to me. If we don't share, we get a mark. If we don't fill out this paper, we get a mark. There's no choice here. Only the illusion of one."

James bites down on his lip, looking conflicted. His crystal earring twinkles in the sunlight. "This is my last chance, Ronan," he says quietly. "You know that I can't waste another summer."

"Who says that Lightlake has to be a waste of time? If we're smart about it, we can make this camp as exciting as we want it to be."

"Now you're just asking for trouble," James says.

I pick up my pencil and twirl it between my fingers like a tiny baton. "I know I talk a lot of shit, but the truth is that I can't afford any more trouble than you can. My mother told me she would disown me if I got kicked out of camp." I flick the pencil into the air, then catch it between my middle and index finger— a trick I learned from Jesse in junior-high. "If there's anything I learned in the days before I got sent to this camp, it's that one small change can transform your entire life. You don't need the help of some cheesy questions to change into a better person. You can do that all by yourself."

James picks up his own pencil and lets it dangle loosely from his fingers, like he can't exactly figure out what to do with it. "You have a way with words, Ronan," he says. "Meaning, you don't talk shit."

I can't tell if he means this as a compliment or not. I decide to take it as one. "Thanks."

James sighs. "Has anybody ever said no to you?"

"Not that I can remember."

"You're going to be the death of me, Ronan Lockwood." James sighs again, but I can see the hint of a smile playing on his lips— and a hint of mischief, too. "So, if you're the master bullshitter around here, what's the plan? We fill out our sheets with the most ridiculous lies we can think of?"

I nod. "The more ridiculous the better, just as long as they're still believable."

"I am so going to regret this later...." mutters James, but he aims his pencil at the paper anyways. Without looking up, he adds, "Your bruise is looking better, by the way. If I didn't know what I was looking for, I'd never figure out that you got decked by a hot-pink suitcase."

It's been a long time since I thought about my black-eye, and when I brush a finger across my brow-bone I barely feel any pain at all. "You're the only one that noticied," I say, a little rattled. James has been full of surprises lately. First the ear piercing, and now the questions.... And don't let me forget that I told him another one of my secrets today. Not even Finn knows about what Sabrina told me the day I left for camp. Not even Jesse....

"I'm not the only one who noticied," replies James. "I'm just the only one who decided to say something about it."

Twenty minutes later, after James and I have finished writing down our answers and handed our papers in to the front, I see Owen marching back towards us through the mess of campers and chairs. There's a cross expression on his face. I can only imagine it's because of one thing. "Uh-oh," I comment. "Somebody didn't think our jokes were very funny."

"Am I allowed to say 'I told you so' now?" James asks, cringing.

The counselor comes to a halt in front of us. "Lockwood," he says, planting his hands on his hips. "What in heaven's name are you wearing?"

James and I exchange a look, and he mouths, what the hell? I shrug, just as confused as he is. "The camp t-shirt, sir," I reply, "just like I'm supposed to."

"Are you sure? Because to me, it looks a lot like a shirt advertising some band called Metallica."

James lets out a surprised laugh that he quickly disguises as a coughing fit when Owen sends him a sharp look. "You're so screwed," he whispers to me.

I glance down at my chest, and that's when I see the counselors is right— I am wearing my Metallica shirt, a glorious work of art with the words Kill em' all! printed boldly across the front. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up, but when it does, I have to resist the urge to slap myself. The sweatshirt. I took off my sweatshirt while I was talking to James, totally forgetting the fact that I was using it to cover up that I haven't worn the camp t-shirt since day one. Fuck. I really am screwed this time.

There's a sinking feeling in my chest as I look up and see Owen still glaring at me. I let out a tentative, "Sorry?"

"Sorry doesn't cut it, young man," Owen snaps. "Now, do you want to explain to me why you decided to blatantly break the camp's mandatory dress-code? Please, go ahead and tell me. I haven't got all day."

Seconds earlier, I'd been planning to accept my punishment and move on, but there's something patronizing about Owen's tone that rubs me the wrong way. I feel my hackles rise. "I'm sorry, sir. I must have misplaced my wardrobe."

"That's a mark for sarcasm," Owen says swiftly. "I'll give you one more chance to tell me where your camp shirt is before I start handing out kitchen duty."

James gives me a frantic look. He mouths, what the hell are you doing?

"The shirt is in my cabin," I amend, hoping that this will appease the counselor enough to make him leave me alone.

"And why is it in your cabin, and not on your chest?"

James shakes his head at me, like he can already hear what I'm about to say, but his protest comes too little, too late. I'm tired of being pushed around by the counselors. I'm tired of questions, I'm tired of marks. I think it's time to make good on my promise to Jesse. I think it's time to give this camp a little hell.

Which is why I smile at the counselors and reply back in the sweetest of tones, "Because it's too fucking big, sir."

Our argument has caught the attention of the cabin now, and I hear a few campers start to laugh. Owen silences them with a look. "That's two marks for language, Lockwood. Please try to rephrase what you just said."

"I'm sorry. My shirts are simply too big."

"What do you mean, they're too big?"

"I mean that my moron roommate ordered me the wrong size, and I refuse to wear a large when I'm only a medium. Baggy clothing isn't flattering on my silhouette."

"Do not call your roommate a moron!"

"If I'm not allowed to call him a moron, and I'm not allowed to wear my own shirts, then what the hell am I allowed to do at this camp?"

"You can do kitchen duty, for starters," Owen says sharply.

My eye gives a subtle twitch. "That's not fair."

"You're right. It isn't fair— it's the rules. Maybe you would know that if you actually read the camp handbook."

"Nobody at camp reads that stupid thing!" I protest, my eye starting to twitch more violently. I turn to James for support, but he's just sitting in his chair with his mouth wide open, completely useless.

Owen wheels around and ushers Jasper out of his chair. "Did you read the the handbook?" he demands.

"Uh, yeah," Jasper stammers. "Why do I—"

"Tell me, camper, what is rule six under the dining clause?"

"Uh, 'campers are required to consume a major source of protein at every meal'—"

"Thank you, Sostenuto." Owen dismisses Jasper with a brisk wave and turns back to me. "I believe that it's time you reevaluate your attitude, Lockwood. Maybe some time spent reading the handbook alone in your cabin will suit you well."

"You've got to be kidding me."

Owen fishes a booklet out of her back pocket and tosses it to me. Unwillingly, I reach forward to catch it. "I want this memorized by the end up the day. Oh, and feel free to skip lunch, because I'll be testing you on it this night. One mark for every answer you miss." Nobody is laughing anymore. Even James won't meet my eyes. "Also, the time we see each other, I want you to be wearing a camp shirt. Or, you can be on kitchen duty for the rest of the summer. Your choice."

"How is that a choice?"

"You're right. I should just give you a summer's worth of kitchen duty right now. Unless you have anything else to say to me."

"No!"

"No, what?"

It causes me actual, physical pain to grind out the words, "No, thanks."

Owen rewards me with a dry smile. "Any other statements on your lack of choice?"

"No."

"Then your time for memorizing the handbook begins now."

I tighten my grip on the book, my knuckles turning white as bone. I consider chucking the book at the counselor's head, but then decide better of it. I've already got kitchen duty for the week. I don't need to get expelled, too.

Owen spins back towards the group, proceeding as if nothing out of the regular has happened. "Please start passing your sheets to the front, everybody. Are their any last questions about the assignment?"

All of the campers in the room have been struck speechless— well, all except for one. Next to me, James' hand shoots into the air. "I have a question, sir."

"Go ahead, camper."

A grin cuts across James' chiseled cheeks as he turns to address the counselor, nothing but mischief in his bronze eyes. I nearly lose my grip on the handbook when I hear what he has to say next: "So, you're not a fan of Metallica?"

I swear, the entire cabin goes dead silent. Even Owen is struck speechless.

Then Emily pops a bubble, and the spell is broken.

"I hope you enjoy spending time with your friend, James, because you're going to be serving a week's worth of kitchen duty together," Owen says. His face hardens, losing all of its wholesome cheer. "We'll see if you're still a smart-mouth after that."

James just keeps smiling. It's a mischievous smile, and in it I can see the spirit of the boy who hitch-hiked halfway across Alaska out of sheer stubborn determination; the boy who thinks birds are cute and Karate Kid a cinematic masterpiece. I don't know why I ever thought James had an empty smile. There's more life tucked away behind those lips than in this entire cabin.

He catches my eye, and his smile widens.

"Don't hold your breath," James replies. 

***

That night, after all my activities are over, I storm back to Becakrof Cabin and kick the door open so hard that it glances off the wall. Finn leaps off his bed so quickly that you'd think I was his drill sergeant. I've got half a mind to yell drop and give me twenty! just to see how he'd react, although knowing Finn, he'd probably be glad to do the extra exercise.

"What the hell?" Finn demands. He's hiding something behind his back, but not very effectively. I can see headphones poking out from behind his kneecaps. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Are you trying to get me kicked out of camp?" I retort.

Finn starts to stammer out a response, but I don't give him the chance the finish. "You can quit trying to hide that Walkman, by the way. I'm not a counselor. I can't give you a mark for owning contraband."

Sheepishly, Finn tucks the Walkman away in one of his drawers. "I'm sorry, man. I had a rough day. The music helps."

He sounds so earnest. It makes me want to scream. "You think you had a rough day? I had to memorize the entire fucking camp handbook!" I throw myself down on my bed, not even bothering to take my Chucks off. Who cares if my blankets get muddy. Who fucking cares. I'm feeling too many things right now, and I just want to shut down. "I've got kitchen duty for the rest of the week, plus Owen hates my guts. All because you couldn't say medium instead of large."

"Wait— are you seriously still hung up on that t-shirt thing? It happened almost two weeks ago."

"Yeah, and it's biting me in the ass now. Owen caught me breaking the dress-code during Sharing Circle. I'm fucked."

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to give you the wrong size shirt. I really didn't."

"Thanks for the apology. It means absolutely fucking nothing to me."

I grab a fistful of sheets and squeeze it as hard as I can. When I close my eyes, I see James' smile, bright and mischievous. I squeeze harder. I'm angry, but I don't know why. I don't think I'm angry at James. Maybe I'm angry at myself. At these stupid, overwhelming feelings that I can't get rid of.

"I didn't do this on purpose. It wasn't an act of spite, or anything like that. It was a genuine mistake," Finn says. His voice hitches halfway through the sentence, like he's upset. Who cares. Who cares about anything anymore.

"I don't care what it was. And I don't give a fuck if you're sorry or not," I snap at him. "Neither of those things are going to get me out of kitchen duty."

"I never thought Karen would give you kitchen duty. I swear."

I fling my fist against the wall so forcibly that one of my knuckles pops. "You don't get it, do you? I don't care. I don't care about your excuses; I don't care about your apologies. Whatever you're trying to say to me— just forget it. And leave me alone."

"Ronan—"

"I already told you, leave me alone!"

"Can't you just hear me out first?"

"No! God, this camp already fucking sucks enough, and you just have to consistently make it worse. You make everything worse!"

"I don't mean to."

"Tell that to the test I just flunked."

"I'm sorry, Ronan. I really am."

I give him a scathing look. He's still standing next in the center of the cabin, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast, feet stuck to the floorboards as if they've been nailed there. He does look like he had a rough day. His eyes are sort of red and puffy, like he has chronic allergies. He looks like shit, and I could care less.

I don't care if that makes me a terrible human being. I don't.

I'm done caring about things. About people.

These feelings. They're just too much.

"I already told you that I don't want to hear your apology. Are you deaf or stupid?"

"I didn't think you heard me the first time."

"Oh, I heard you. Loud and clear."

"Ronan, I—"

"Don't speak to me," I tell him. "Don't even look at me. For all I care, you don't exist."

"You can't ignore me for the rest of the summer. We're roommates!"

"Stop talking. If I hear one more word out of you, I'll actually punch you in the face."

"You don't mean that," Finn says, hurt.

"Are you sure you want to test that theory?"

Finn opens his mouth to argue this, then closes it. Wordlessly, he sits back down on his bed and stares at the floor.

"That's what I thought," I say. "Now, let's keep things this way between us. Silent."